The American Nightmare
by eloquentfever
Summary: Set in 1948. Kurt Hummel is a writer that has spent ten years writing his book. Kurt chases the American Dream. He has been rejected, and physically beaten for writing about two gay lovers. Having one last hope, Kurt leaves his lover, Sebastian Smythe, to go to the Denmark, where the homophile movement was beginning, to get his book published.


_This one-shot is primarily inspired by Arthur Miller's "Death of a Salesman". Some believed that his story acquired a harsh criticism for the American Dream. Some say that it depends on which character you ask and what the American Dream meant to them. This is the case in this story as well. It appears as an extremely harsh criticism of the ideals of the American Dream, especially since it's mostly centred around Kurt's perspective, but it also has glimpses of Blaine's and Sebastian's and what their dreams are. Some people are probably not reading this. It's not like most things I wrote. It's written based on a period of time that had actually occurred and may be offensive to the real events—but then again ,this is solely made for the purpose of entertainment. I wasn't there (obviously) and by default, I'm not even an American citizen. xD. _

**_Anyway, there is a cipher here. A reversed alphabet cipher. I'd say you should go find an online decoder for this part of the fanfic. Do I ask of too much? For you to read and decipher things? It makes it all the more…real? I don't know. xD. _**

_By the way, the intro paragraph is the most heartfelt thing I have ever written. Also, I paced this as well as I want it. omgosh i don't mean to offend you if this offends you also I didn't live in the 1940s so please excuse my inaccuracy of that time though the two events did correlate. In that time, they thought that the term "homosexual" was far too horrid as it suggested hypersexuality so they used the term homophile instead. anyway...here's with my all in for this fanfic. I hope you enjoy it and as always, it's long. Very long. _

* * *

_"By definition, the American Dream is a set of ideals that some went by, that life can be better, richer, for every American despite their momentary status and a belief that everyone is equal, so everyone has equal opportunity. It's just those who work for it that get the benefit of their hard-work."_

* * *

_This is the last chapter to this book. Can you tell it too? The term is so loose. Chapter refers to a section, a part, a mere stage or period or subdivision. It means nothing on its own, but when strung together, there is something more. The story begun with a simple boy, a brown-haired boy with light eyes, an ordinary boy, that met another boy – a boy described by the same words, a boy that also has brown hair, and light eyes. They wore their hair the same one. The other one was smaller, and there was more of him in mass, but a lot less of him in his mind. He felt invisible, trapped, small. In this book, he is simply called by K. K is not even a name, but a letter, but like the chapter, it is a part of a whole. You can choose the whole if you want to. The other boy, S like the snake, the was a lot less of him than mass, and he was taller. He had a lot of him in his mind. Some might call him a narcissist, but to K, the boy was a dream. An endless dream. In the beginning, they had no type of attachment. Nobody would know and they wouldn't even know anything either._

_Fate is a powerful word, slightly thrown around far too lightly. Some may say they met by Fate, some say they might have cheated fate. They are both boys that have developed into men by the end, but really, what is the end? This all seems like a mound of words, senseless words that have acquired no meaning at all, but to someone out there, they are the world. Stories are written always so smoothly, but not everyone thinks so. Sometimes, stories are meant to be chaotic, like an uncontrollable thought process. If you followed, you understood that you had someone that thought the same way as you. If you didn't, then it's alright, because words are just what they meant to you. K might not have understood this in the beginning, but S definitely did. S showed him what words meant. _

_I am K. I met S about twelve years ago. I was a boy of the tender age of twelve, S was but eleven years old. When we hit fourteen, we realised that we loved each other, but we could not act on it. Upon legal law, those of same-sex could not love each other until the age of fifteen. Sometimes he wrote messages on the oak tree we met near. Sometimes, I still go there to read them. Sometimes, I still carve out words there, hoping that one day, when he is truly lost, he will find them, read them, and to know that above all else, whether he has hurt or raped or murdered, that there is a silver of love somewhere out there for him and it exists if he wanted it to. I hope that if he is ever so lost, that he'd want that love to exist. Things only exist if you believe in them. I hope he'll always believe in me, in my love for him, in us, because truth is certain, but above all else, belief is stronger. It is unshakable. You cannot tell the priest facts of science, he will shun you and always turn to God. You cannot tell a dreamer to stop dreaming, that his dreams will never come true. I still dream. And as long as I live, I will always dream, even when I believe that dreams are senseless. I will always love and that will always be enough._

_Then he taught me how to sing, so I sung. I still sing. I'm a singer, I believe there is a song out there that needs to be found and needs to be sung. A singer is like a writer. They sing and some may like it. Some may believe it's about them. These songs were written for a purpose. These words are written for a purpose. It is to believe that somewhere out there, above all else, there is someone that understands the pain that you feel, or the love that you harbour. These little things in society make society what it is. A lover is nobody other than someone that regardless of whether they understand the pain you feel or not, they will sit down and they will listen. And in return, there is nothing they want other than your ability to love them, love them for the faults they hate, love them for the things that they do, love them like they're your world because if you are someone's world, then what wrong can you do? _

_ I wrote this story with the hope that lovers, may they be straight, or gay, or any combination, can understand that sometimes, there is a love that is so pure that nothing can truly taint it, a love where nothing matters as long as they never stop loving, because as long as they love each other, they can be miles away, oceans away, parted by death or parted by distance – they are still here. To you, these words might mean everything. To you, these words may mean nothing. But to K, to S, to us, it will be the reason why I still write and the reason why he still sings to me when I believe I cannot write, just so we can hold onto to the belief that there is something stronger than death, something that is much more permanent. To me, that something is these words. Whether I live or I die, someone will read these words, and they will revive me from the dead with every note. This last chapter is only to assure you, that yes, this is the end, but always remember, when you believe that love does not exist, that it is foolish—you can always pick up this book, and read it again. Maybe then you will realise that no matter who you are, if you understand my words, if you keep on reading, if you are in pain, if you are happy, if you are lost, that somewhere in the world, someone is carving out a tree for you. _

_In all essence, I may have never seen you, or met you, or held you, or carved out a tree for you. You may have seen me before. You might have thought that this boy's eyes are beautifully blue. You may have passed me on the street without even glancing back at me. You might be in pain, but if you are human, if you share blood, flesh, and thoughts, then you are important. You are loved. I say this with the utmost certainty, that if you are in pain, I can only assure you one thing: that I love you. You do not need to meet, or see a person, or even know their name. I believed I was in love with someone's eyes once. If you exist, you love. If you love, then I love you back. I have a story. I only share it for the purpose of not spreading love, but to ensure it. If you read this, then I love you. If you did not, then I still love you. If you keep on carving on your skin, it will bleed. If you keep on crying, you will reach a point where you must stop. If keep on bleeding, then you will always have a story._

_But most of all, if you keep on loving people, at some point, maybe in death, in actions, or by nothing more than a simple glance, you will realise that they will love you back. If you strip us, from clothing, blood, flesh, we will have a heart. And a heart is made to beat. As long as you live, there will always be someone that will make your heart beat faster, to ensure that you are alive. And that, is the greatest gift anyone can give you, is to realise that above all else, you live, because your heart races and your palms are sweaty. You live because you love. And the only reason you hurt is because you love too much and you are special. You are beautiful. And I love you. _

* * *

Whilst the country slept, Kurt Hummel was still sitting on his typewriter.

The pages poured as time passed, and he held his breath when it hit four twenty-nine am. A singular tear fell from his eyes, hitting the plain white paper that he'd just written. He carefully placed that paper at the end of the stack he had and pulled the mounds of papers together. He smiled a wide smile, tears still spilling down his cheeks. He got up, his muscles ached but he couldn't care at all.

He ran upstairs, ignoring the creaks of his nearly fallen-apart house and ran inside the room where he and his lover, Sebastian, usually slept in. He was an angel, a sleeping angel. Usually, he couldn't bear to think of waking him up but today, that notion was untrue. Kurt had walked towards him with excitement bubbling in his veins, as he had shook Sebastian awake, causing those sleepy green eyes to burst wide open. "What the fuck, K—?"

Kurt had then pulled up the stack of papers to Sebastian's eyes. Sebastian stared at them for a moment, trying to make sense of the world through the fogginess of sleep. "Is that…?"

Kurt had only nodded happily, causing Sebastian to sit up completely. All of the sleep had disappeared from those eyes.

"It's finished," Kurt can't believe it. Ten years had passed by so slowly. It was all leading up to this very moment. The days of skipping meals just to write, the days of allowing life to go past him just to write…it all meant nothing right now. His desperation had made a beautiful production. Behind those words, there was certainty, reality…the kind of reality that did not disappear. No matter what, Kurt would've always put his blood, sweat, work, time, and thought process just to write those few simple words that might mean nothing at all to anyone in this world, but meant everything to Kurt Elizabeth Hummel. "It's _finished_," he repeated, his voice still surreal.

Sebastian took the papers from Kurt's hands. He looked through them. He couldn't catch much. He just wanted to see if it was truly real, truly finished and then he looked up at Kurt's joyful eyes. He had never seen as much elation and ecstasy as he did right then. Sebastian had never been good with words and at that very moment, the ability to find the words to express how proud he was of Kurt was completely non-existent. He stood up and wrapped his arms around Kurt, embracing him tightly. Kurt hugged him back as tightly as possible. Years of construction work and carrying solid objects showed as Sebastian had felt Kurt hold him back. He'd never really recognised how strong Kurt was until then.

Kurt looked up to see Sebastian's eyes, those green orbs. In that moment, nothing truly mattered. He finally finished it, and nothing would matter anymore. In that moment, he realised that he did not want to share this news with anyone else, that he would not be as happy as if his Father, Burt, or if his dead Mother, Elizabeth herself, knew about his succession. Kurt's mind always jumped to Sebastian when he wanted to tell him something that was truly magnificent. He realised right then just how much he truly loved Sebastian Smythe and it was the kind of love that was so beautiful that its pain only showed itself when he was apart from Sebastian. Kurt had come to realise just how alive Sebastian was, just how those green eyes stared back at him and he could not ask for more at any point in his life.

"I love you," Kurt hurriedly said. Sebastian shut his eyes as if he can feel the words, his cheeks burning into a soft rosy colour. Kurt didn't need Sebastian to say any of it back. His eyes said enough after all. The feeling was mutual.

* * *

The euphoria didn't leave him until later on that week.

Kurt was sitting down happily when he was given a meeting with the man himself. Sir Lucas was a man of power, and he especially liked reading. He thought that literature was an important part in development. Books may not be cheap, but he appreciated those who did buy them. Kurt had given Sir Lucas the fresh copy of his book, and the man stared at it for a few moments. "So, you're a young writer, aren't you?"

"Twenty-four," Kurt finally announced with a bright smile.

"That is young indeed," the man said. He looked completely impressed. He read the first few sentences just to see if he liked Kurt's style and deemed to have.

"So, what makes you believe that you are better than any other contender? I believe that times are futile now. Trying to get a job is extremely difficult. During these times, I have more than thirteen men visit me in the same hour, all of them with the same dreams, having spent years and years writing with a persistent hope. What makes you different then?"

"I'm not," Kurt said, throwing back Sir Lucas. "I have a story that needs to be told, like everyone else. I am no different than this man or the next. I am just a human that simply likes to write trying to serve an audience that simply wants to read. I can glorify myself, sir, but my name means nothing to you. My social status is laughable. I'm a boy that has spent those same ten years that I've spent writing this book also doing hard labour by moving objects during construction period so that people can create new housing. I am not paid handsomely. I am actually paid enough to barely feed two people. Most times, it doesn't. In a world where curves and built is seen as beautiful, I am nothing. I am a boy that is far too thin trying to gain weight to look substantial. My lover looks even worse by these social standards. In a world where appearance is everything – where excess weight means that one is fed properly and where clothing indicates whether one has enough to indulge then I am by means, not powerful. I have never had a day where I've weighed more than a hundred and forty-one unfortunately. The most expensive things I own is a pocket watch my Father gave me years ago. I can sell it and make a fortune. It's made out of pure gold, but memory is far too precious you see."

Sir Lucas stared at Kurt for some time and then finally said, 'so you're telling me what makes you a fine contender is that you're nothing better than anyone else?"

"Below social standards actually," Kurt pitched in. "I am _obscenely_ poor. The only thing I have better than any other boy is a proper education. I'm blessed that way. Most boys of my age are illiterate and cannot speak well. I can. I can find the words for expressions. That's what makes me a writer, but every other writer also has a way of expressing things so perhaps, what makes me different is that I express my own thoughts in my own way and hope that you enjoy my thought process. There's nothing more than just that."

"Hmm," Sir Lucas nodded his head in thought. "What is your book about then?"

"It's a book about love," Kurt finally said after some time. "Widely overused topic but what makes mine different then is that it's about two boys that are in love."

Sir Lucas' eyes turned much darker than they were before. "I must ask you to leave."

"I'd beg your pardon, but—"

"_Leave_," Sir Lucas cut him off. Kurt was completely and utterly shocked, but then picked off the stacks of papers. He was sure all of them were there. Sir Lucas barely read any bit of it, and just judged him for the fact that it was about two boys. Kurt smiled weakly at the man but the man looked completely and utterly disgusted. Kurt had left, stunned, his hands around his work as he had left the building. He felt lonely and small, smaller than usual. He hated feeling small and being so small. He watched as a portly man walked past him. Kurt stared in envy. That man would probably be published and Kurt can tell that it would be by nothing more than the name and the flicker of the extremely expensive gold watch.

Kurt took a deep breath and left the building, still looking down at the ground as he clutched his work as tightly as ever, almost as if trying to tell the stack of paper that it wasn't their fault at all.

* * *

Sebastian Smythe stood by the counter and gave his object over towards the girl. "This is nice," she complimented his choice. "Sturdy. Brother or Father?"

Sebastian's eyes were hard. "Boyfriend."

She completely stopped talking to him after this, and then gave it to him in a bag though she glared at him. He glared back. That whore will never ever understand what he had gone through to scrape up this much money. He'd always had spare money saved and now, he didn't. He had spent thirteen years of money he saved just to buy Kurt something extraordinary. It wasn't much money. He didn't work after Kurt had insisted him not to do so. It was more of loose change his Father gave him when he came home from work as a child piling up in his pockets and years of his parents being unable to find a proper gift for his birthday so they gave him money. Sadly, this value seemed to decrease every year and not because they were greedy or hated him, because that was all they could afford giving away without spending days in starvation.

When he'd gotten home, he waited impatiently. He wanted Kurt home now but Kurt was busy. He came home only late at night, and Sebastian was honestly too excited to see the discouraged look on Kurt's face. He had pushed the pure leather briefcase he'd bought Kurt to him.

Kurt looked down at the object, and smiled as he placed his book in it. He looked back up at Sebastian, whom seemed to be so very proud of him that the day's worries were erased in a second. He forgot about his rejection. In this small house, he was everything. Kurt smiled widely as he hugged him. Sebastian didn't say much, out of choice. "How was work? Did you shove all of that shit Ferris makes you carry up his ass like I want you to?"

Kurt shook his head. Ferris was Kurt's employer and quite a tough one at that. "I went to see Sir Lucas and he rejected my book." Kurt said, but then at a lighter note, "there are more publishers out there for me. Someone will recognise this book and they will love it for simply what it is. I will not change this book into a story between a man and a woman because it's my story…it's _our_ story."

Sebastian smirked. "Well, if you do, then you're the damned chick. I don't care who tops or who bottoms, you're the one who has the damned anatomy as far as I'm concerned and yes, Kurt, women can top men. It's atrocious I say…well, sexy atrocious. I always knew my Mother was the man of the house, you see. Her dick was obviously bigger than my Father's."

Kurt smiled, shaking his head, far too used to Sebastian's crudeness. "How much did this cost?"

Sebastian didn't want to answer that. "I made some lamb. It's gross and it's cold and I put it in stew. Lamb stew. That exists I suppose and if it doesn't, I think I have just created an ungodly concoction. You're gonna eat it as well. You cannot afford to skip another meal—you're looking awfully thin."

Kurt looked down at his figure for a moment. "I am not much thinner than any other person in this part of the neighbourhood. If I fall, I will crack because there is nothing in my body to give it the support or padding it needs." He said in complete revolt and then stared up at Sebastian's figure. "And if I'm thin, then you must be a meagre skeleton, love."

Sebastian shrugged. "I can't sit around the house and eat all fucking day, despite the fact that I do want to stuff my face in cold lamb and chopsticks considering how rich we are."

Kurt shut his eyes. "Sebastian…uh...I'm sorry." It was an apology long due after fourteen years.

Sebastian's eyes softened. "Don't you _dare_ apologise. It was _my_ choice and I took the one that _I_ wanted."

"You wanted to starve to death in this bloody house when I'm working all day?" Kurt finally said, voice full of incredulity and spite for himself.

"Do I give a fuck about any of that?" Sebastian finally said. "I don't regret my choice, Kurt and if I die in this damn house out of fucking Typhoid, I'm not going to regret it. If an angel came down in all of his sparkly assed glory and said that 'hey, you'll live 90 more years if you didn't choose this', I'd still not regret this choice. I simply can't regret _you_. I _love_ you."

"How about that lamb?" Kurt looked down at the briefcase. He knew it must have cost an obscene amount of money. Kurt couldn't have guessed until he was standing near that same store that Sebastian had bought it from, far too pale, as he stared at the price on the window. That very briefcase Kurt was holding was only a little under a quarter of the price of the house they bought.

* * *

The next day, Kurt had gotten up starved for some reason. Sebastian had been out of his way and had prepared him some eggs. Kurt had one of the eggs, waited for a bit, trying to wait for some kind of satiation to settle and gobbled down the other one. Sebastian must've been able to read the hunger in Kurt's eyes because he turned around, picked off the two eggs from his own plate and placed them on Kurt's. Kurt looked up at him with a horrified expression. "And you?"

"I sit around on my ass all day. I don't need any eggs," Sebastian finally answered. "You're going to get up, go work until late with a few eggs in you and whatever bread you can buy off the few coins you do have. Surely, it's only math."

Kurt watched him for a moment. "You aren't hungry," he read that sign completely well.

"No, I'm not," Sebastian honestly responded. "Must be the stew."

"Hmm," Kurt couldn't be bothered to ask Sebastian to eat at least one because of how hungry he was. After he'd had those two eggs, Sebastian had even let him have a bit of cheese, claiming that it was nice. Franny, their next door neighbour, did that sometimes. She worked in processing dairy products and would come by sometimes, giving them cheese or milk or yoghurt. Kurt loved that about her. Sebastian finally looked up at Kurt. "Kurt, Valentina is sick."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Hmm?"

"Valentina?" Sebastian reminded him. "The daughter that you barely see?"

"Not my fault," Kurt said darkly. Sebastian slowly nodded his head after some time, though Kurt can see how distressed he was. It was probably another reason why his appetite barely existed as it was. Kurt had finally gone upstairs to look at their daughter.

He was ashamed to say he hadn't even known she'd grown so fast. This small child with his jet-black hair, wide innocent brown eyes. He smiled. She was really starting to look like Finn now. According to Sebastian, she used to be that Finchel baby, but they'd come accustomed to calling her their daughter. Soon, she had become their actual responsibility, their daughter, soon after Rachel had rejected her daughter in aspirations of her dreams of becoming a starlet. Finn had gone off to become a soldier. Rachel had died only three years ago due to Typhoid and Finn as well. Kurt couldn't say he'd missed Rachel as much as he missed Finn. The small girl that was now their daughter had started to look more like Finn than she did her Mother.

Sebastian moved towards Valentina and Kurt. Kurt looked up at him. "It's upsetting you."

"It's my daughter," Sebastian urged Kurt to see his point of view. Kurt would never really understand how bad it hurt for Sebastian to say that Valentina was _his_ daughter.

Kurt looked up at Sebastian. "Your daughter?" he finally said, voice hard. "Yours?"

Sebastian shut his eyes. "How long _haven't_ you seen her in? Because, Kurt, you don't see her. You don't even fucking _glance_ at her."

"Not my fault!" Kurt repeated again, his voice abnormally high. "Sebastian, I wake up and I eat whatever is given to me and then I go to work. I come back at eight usually, and sometimes, even at a more abnormal time. By then, I am tired. I just write until I feel tired and then I wake up at five am to do it all over again."

"And your weekends?" Sebastian finally pointed out, his eyes hard. "Kurt, I simply do not understand how hard it must be for you to _glance_ over at your daughter once every _two_ _weeks_."

Kurt flinched.

"How long has it been since you've last seen her anyway? Did you even talk to me about her? Kurt, I am proud of you, ridiculously so." Sebastian found his voice wavering off slightly. "You are an incredibly person and a passionate writer but you're a shit Father."

Kurt shut his eyes and then slowly accepted the truth. "Fine," he didn't expect himself to sound so broken-hearted. He grabbed his things and then he left. He left to go to work and then during his lunch break, instead of trying to pool his coins together to figure out which bread he should buy, he had gone off to see Axel, another publisher whose son worked part-time at Kurt's construction site.

"Come in! I've heard so much about you, yes, yes," Axel enthusiastically said. "Your name is Kurt then?"

"Kurt Hummel," he chirped happily. "I work with your son."

"Yes, yes, I remember," Axel said, eyes glittering. "You're a writer I heard?"

"Yes, a writer indeed," Kurt said, pulling out the stacks of papers from his bag. He had felt an abnormal amount of guilt pool up in his stomach, thinking of the price of the briefcase. In all essence, Sebastian only bluntly told him the truth. He hadn't been there to see any bit of Valentina's growth. It was alike the school projects he had to do with Coby – he had done all the work because Kurt hadn't known how to, and then he had called it 'their' project, when Kurt hadn't invested a second's of time in it. Kurt had done the same thing with Valentina – surely, he called her his daughter but he did not stay with her like Sebastian did. The small girl had a small bond with him, yes, but she did not care if Kurt had left the house but the minute that Sebastian did, she would start to cry and scream as if the apocalypse was being created. The few times that Sebastian did leave the house, Franny had looked after Valentina for him. Kurt had felt an abnormal amount of guilt in his chest right now, even as he had given Axel his work.

Axel had paled. "About two boys?"

Kurt slowly nodded his head. "And their daughter," he chimed in. His voice was so bleak. He had written so much about Valentina in that book, things about how she used to look like – describing her rosette face that had turned into a healthy peachy sheen. He had said her eyes were small and naïve, but now, they were wide and observant. He had said that her cheeks were full and proud but after so long, her cheeks were less round, and a bit higher, something she might have gotten from her Mother. He had said that her hair was short and jet black, but now it was long and glittered a shade of dulled ebony. His – Sebastian's – daughter's transformation occurred without Kurt even realising it happening. He had no excuse for why he could not peer over his daughter. Above all of this, Sebastian had still found the energy to care for his work. He work seemed less important now that it was finished and after the fight that morning.

He saw Axel's eyes harden. Kurt took the papers from him and was just about to leave when Caine had grabbed Kurt by his arm and slammed him against the wall, hitting him repeatedly. "Cute faggot thinks that he can possibly be of value any fucking where." He pushed Kurt straight into the desk, and Kurt felt as if his body was dislodged and dissociated. His hand was slammed up against a filing cabinet, and Axel had left, not wanting to intrude on it. Caine had then decided that this was being far too kind, grabbing Kurt's now bruised wrist, and pulling him forcefully outside of the building.

Kurt looked down at the exit, which had a few stairs. Caine had thrown him against the stairs. Kurt was quickly met with the sharp edged stairs and then concrete. He was bruised, and there was blood pooling from a cut in his stomach, seeping through his blouse. He had to get back to work. Ferris forced Kurt to move the objects even with the horrendous bruising and the sharp cuts that marred his stomach. He felt weak, as if he was going to snap into two halves. By the time he was done, he had gone back home, only to see Sebastian on the couch. The scent of that lamb stew in the air. Sebastian probably had to be tired. He was asleep and Valentina was in his arms, as asleep as he was. Kurt had moved towards the kitchen, picked off the bowl of stew, and the baguette of bread. Kurt knew that Sebastian usually split the baguette between himself and Kurt, which led Kurt to believe that Sebastian had eaten very little for supper if he was yet again giving him his share of food. Kurt had gone upstairs as soundlessly as possible. He had gone to Franny to pick up a few bandages then, and she overreacted to the cuts, saying that he might get seriously infected.

Kurt then went upstairs, and he laid on his bed. The former glory of finishing his novel had left, and now, there was nothing but hot tears filling his eyes, as they fell from those broken blue orbs.

* * *

Kurt hadn't gotten the paper in five years of his life, but this morning, he felt somehow inclined to do so and this led him to read the paper from front to back about how absurd the Danish were. There was an upheaval in Denmark, something called the homophile movement. Kurt had read it back to front. It fascinated him completely to see people stand up for his rights. He knew realistically he could not publish his book here, in America. That he had to leave, so that was what happened. He had gone back home during his lunch break – which Ferris was not very impressed with – and then he had gotten a great deal of his things packed. Sebastian was yet again asleep. He had packed everything – which wasn't much – in the briefcase that Sebastian had gotten him. He had fixed his fedora on his head, straightened his pinstriped jacket and pants which had brass buttons which his blouse had glassier ones. He had shined his loafers and then he went to stare at Sebastian. Valentina was in her cot. Kurt had moved towards Sebastian. He needed something of his, just anything…just in case he couldn't come back. If he and Sebastian would discuss it, Sebastian would've told him to stay but Kurt had never felt such an impulse – this horrendous rush – in his life.

He had left Sebastian a note on the table beside him. Kurt had gone off and found a pair of scissors. He had cut off a bit of Sebastian's hair from the back, something he wouldn't even notice. The small curl of brown hair in his hand that smelled faintly like the cheap shampoo that they were forced to used was shoved into the first pocket of the briefcase. Then with that, he had left. He was so set on leaving his entire life, his love, his small child, with nothing more than a few old clothing that fit him twenty pounds ago and a lock of Sebastian's hair. Kurt knew it was ridiculous but nothing can stop him. He was just so sick, and everything seemed to not work in his favour at all.

Just as Kurt was walking outside, he had gone through streets and roads, all on his feet. His loafers were starting to hurt him. Kurt wanted to rest. He had gone off and found enough coins to buy him a piece of bread. When he was eating that, he was interrupted.

"Kurt," the man announced. Kurt had looked up at the familiar voice only to see that it was no one other than his boss, Ferris.

"Mr Ferris," Kurt had politely said – as politely as possible to the person he had despised the most.

"I see you've been distracted lately," Ferris had chimed in, causing Kurt's stomach to roll in nausea, realising he would most definitely not like the latter part of this conversation. Kurt slowly nodded his head and was just about to speak when Ferris had cut him off before Kurt can even say a small word. "It displeases me."

"I want to travel," Kurt blurted out. "Mr Ferris, I want to go off for a while, a small break for a few months perhaps," Kurt admitted.

Ferris seemed to be thinking about this. "I believe I can let you go if you work consistently without a lunch break for the next forty days. A five am shift to an eleven pm shift…that sounds reasonable, don't you suppose?"

Kurt nodded his head slowly. He could not deny Ferris' request. He had to have a job. He could not leave here and come back to nothing. It would be the worst thing in the world to be jobless, useless. Kurt had nodded once more. For the next forty days, that was all he had done. He couldn't go back home anymore, so he had just roamed around every night. By the time the forty-first day had come, Kurt was not only exhausted mentally and physically from being pushed far too much – he had also wanted to go back home. He wanted to curl up and eat sickening lamb stew and listen to Sebastian speak. He missed his lover's voice. He missed Sebastian's smile. He missed everything about him and Kurt hadn't even left yet. He had sent his pay-check and any amount of money to Sebastian. Of course, he was impulsive about going to Denmark but he thought this out well enough. Kurt had emptied out his bank account completely, along with that pay-check and gave his money to Sebastian. That should last him quite a few months as well.

After that, Kurt was glad that a boy named Sam Evans had owned him a large favour. Sam was poor, like he was, dirt poor if anything and he also was quite good friends with Finn. When Kurt had told him how significant it was to go to Denmark, Sam looked confused but then agreed to take him. They went from Ohio to Boston at first. Kurt liked Boston more than he did Ohio. In Boston, Sam had said that he would introduce Kurt to someone that can take him far into Denmark for no fee at all considering that Sam was quite good friends with him. This led to Kurt meeting a boy named Chandler, whom was a chirpy, beautiful blonde thing. Chandler had a boyfriend. Kurt's smile practically split his face in when he heard that. Chandler would understand, surely enough. Chandler was a happy blonde thing that Kurt had become accustomed too quite quickly. Chandler's boyfriend, Blaine Anderson, was filthy rich and didn't mind Kurt not paying at all.

Blaine had stared at Kurt for some time as Kurt had seen the lights go off and the sailing begin. "We'll stop at a port every week or so," Blaine said, obviously to load things so Kurt would have a day of walking around a completely new area all by himself. Kurt practically begged through his nose for Blaine to give him any bit of work for him to do if he was to be paid even a cent a day. Blaine's heart hurt him just to see how desperate Kurt was for money, how appreciative he was of a singular paper note. Blaine couldn't bear to let Kurt do too much work and paid him such a large sum for such a small task. When they did get to a port, Kurt quickly mailed that money to Sebastian. His anxiety was through the roof.

Kurt had to room into a very small room, which made Chandler feel horrible that they didn't have any other vacant room. Kurt had realised he'd become claustrophobic. That room was where the ship's alcohol, cannons and barrels were mostly at. It took Kurt some time before he can even reach the small bed on the end, though Kurt did not complain once about it.

Kurt wrote to Sebastian in a reversed alphabet cipher:

_HVYZHGRZM, R SZW GL OVZEV. R'N HLIIB. R OLEV LSRL. R OLEV EZOVMGRMZ, YFG NLHG LU ZOO, R GIFOB RIIVELXZYOB OLEV BLF. RG DZH SZIW GL OVZEV, YFG SZIWVI GL HGZB. R SZW GL OVZEV. R SZW GL NZPV Z WRUUVIVMXV. R SZEV Z WIVZN. RG'H TLRMT GL PROO NV, GSVB HZB. HFXS WIVZNH ZODZBH WL, YFG RU R HGZBVW GSVIV, RG DZH HOLDOB FMWLRMT NV. VEVIBGSRMT. R XLFOWM'G HGZMW RG. R'OO YV YZXP. R KILNRHV. BLF'OO HVV NV. BLF NRTSG MVEVI ULITREV NV. R DROO MVEVI YOZNV BLF RU BLF MVEVI WL. R'N HZUV. YOZRMV HZBH GSZG DV'OO YV LFG LU YLHGLM RM Z UVD WZBH ZMW RMGL NZRMV JFRGV HLLM. UILN NZRMV, DV DROO OVZEV ULI JFVYVX ZMW UILN GSV YLIWVIH LU JFVYVX, DV DROO SLKVUFOOB IVZXS RIVOZMW RM Z UVD NLMGSH. BLF XZM HVMW Z OVGGVI ZG GSV NZRM KLIG GSVIV. R DROO IVZW RG RU R TVG GSVIV RM Z UVD NLMGSH. _

_BLF GLOW NV GSZG BLF OLEVW NV YVXZFHV R WIVZNVW. MLD, R'N XSZHRMT GSZG WIVZN. MLD, R SLKV GSZG BLF OLEV NV ULI XSZHRMT GSZG WIVZN, ULI SLKRMT GSLFTS R DROO MLG YV HFIKIRHVW RU BLF DZMG MLGSRMT GL WL DRGS NV. R DROO YV ZYOV GL HVMW BLF NLIV NLMVB RM Z UVD WZBH. _

_IVTZIWH, PFIG._

Kurt had pulled away the code and then sealed the envelope. If anything, Kurt knew he had to be careful with these letters. He had given it to Blaine and Blaine had studied that guilty look on Kurt's face. "Who did you leave?" Blaine finally asked.

"My boyfriend," Kurt finally said, looking up with hot tears filling his eyes. It was only after he wrote this letter to realise how long it would be to get back to Sebastian…if he got back to Sebastian. It was almost like all the forces of gravity and logic finally hit him, made him realise what he'd decided to do, what he thought was the right thing and it was killing him on the inside, twisting darkly. "I left him all alone with _nothing_. What kind of a putrid human being would do such a deed?"

Chandler was frowning but then perked up. "Did you leave him a letter?"

Kurt slowly nodded his head. "Did you leave him money?" Kurt yet again nodded his head. "Did you tell him that you love him?" Kurt nodded his head once more adamantly.

Chandler giggled. "You didn't leave him, silly! You gave him everything," his eyes were shining quite proudly now as he gave Kurt a comforting hug. "Come on! Dinner's ready. You can sit with us other than sitting with like the workers. It's sad to have what they're having. They barely eat and you're really skinny. You look really good though."

Kurt grimaced in disgust and shook his head. "I refuse to believe I look good. I look _dead_, as if each part of me had already deteriorated. I despise being as thin as I am."

Blaine and Chandler had raised their eyebrows. "I'd kill to lose a few pounds." Chandler finally mumbled, causing Blaine to glare at him. Chandler then pulled Kurt into their dining room on the opposite side of the ship. Kurt had honestly not seen so much food crammed in one place before. He was completely and utterly stunned. He quickly thought of Sebastian and hoped that the brilliant amount of money he'd have sent him would tide him over for a long time and even allow him to indulge. Kurt had collected even more money from scrubbing the docks and working so adamantly. Chandler had been shocked at the amount of work that Kurt had done and not even complained once about it, not even for a second.

Kurt had always thought the prospect of the American Dream was true. His current dream was to publish his work, gain popularity and money from that alone. He did not care about how negative or positive the popularity was, just that he'd made even the slightest bit of difference made him feel like he smiled. Blaine had made Kurt sit beside him and Chandler, which was apparently quite high class. To Kurt, it was confusing, that certain people stayed in certain places. He was inclined to sit anywhere at all. What was also confusing was the mannerisms they had. If Kurt was hungry, he would demolish his food, but apparently, they did not know of true hunger like he had. They wanted to lose weight (a notion that Kurt had still laughed at – who wanted to be a premature skeleton he would never know) and then his mind had drifted off.

Chandler was nudging him. "So, how did you meet your lover?"

"Sebastian?" Kurt inquired and then smiled weakly. "I work as in construction – typically in moving and carrying around objects. I helped built his house. At that time, he was living with his Mother. His Mother was very posh and elegant. She was quite rich. Sebastian was nice, tall, and for someone who ate as well as he did, quite thin actually now that I thought about it. He had so many talents. With such a high autocracy, he painted, sung, read, cooked, and danced. I had never once seen something so talented. He knew many different languages, specifically French, and Latin. He would walk in on me when I ate my piece of bread, eating three whole croissants and a cup of hot chocolate. He wasn't projecting how rich he was. He even offered us some leftovers – which were mountains of food, but we felt far too much guilt in taking other's food. Where I lived, taking food from someone usually meant you were taking their whole days' worth of food to be honest. Even though logically, I could take the food from Sebastian's hands and he'd still have so much more, I couldn't bear to. And neither could my friends.

"Once I heard him sing. He was very cocky, but I sang along with him. He said I had a nice voice. He liked sitting with me and told me many stories. He is the reason for my passion of writing. I just sat down once and told him that I wanted to write, and with that, he had bought me a typewriter. I felt an abnormal amount of guilt, being singled out as worth anything when I was so used to being nothing. For the first few months, I could not write and nothing I wrote was substandard enough though he had never told me that I had to write. He kept on telling me stories. What was a few weeks' stories turned into days and days of stories colliding with each other. It seemed as every day, he had a new story to tell me. I fell in love with the fantasies at first, the stories. That was when I began to carve messages on an oak tree we used to meet in. By that time, he was merely fourteen and I as well. I had to work at a young age to support my Father. He felt an immense amount of guilt for it as well."

Kurt looked down at the food in front of him that smelled so good that Kurt had to have at least a bite before he continued. "At fourteen, two boys are not allowed to love, at least by their age. Not legally, so we waited. We just carved out messages then. Sometimes, he wrote entire stories and I'd read them over and over again. They fuelled my fantasy. The biggest and most lucid gift I'd ever gotten from anyone was when Sebastian had given me his old copy of a book called _the Stranger_. It is by far one of my favourite novels to read. Its plot is not intriguing but the way that the main character, Meursault thought was intriguing. I had wanted to write, but I had no story to tell. Besides, my English was not as good as it was today. I was better at English than most of my peers and eager to learn, so I had. I had learned from Sebastian things that I did not think I can learn from anyone else, though this was accompanied by many snide remarks on his end I assure you. He is a slight narcissist, far too proud for himself, though I've grown to love that about him as well because after all, I loved him. I can see why he could love himself as well."

Kurt smiled weakly, taking another spoonful of the dish. He didn't know what it was, just that it tasted marvellous. "Then I turned fifteen. And a year after, he had as well. That day, I had snuck into his window, and we didn't need a kiss. We just did it right on his bed, but a few months afterwards, we were caught." Kurt's eyes were darkening now. "Then something else had happened. His Mother had said that either he lives with his non-homophobic poor Father, or stay with her but not be allowed to see me. He had decided only in a second's time that he would stay with me. He lost everything and gained only a poor boy. I worked harder, and tried to gain as much money as possible to buy us our house. Our house is broken and it is certainly not a dream, but we built our dreams in it."

Kurt chuckled sadly. "I watched Sebastian slowly become complacent. He had nothing to do for the most bit. He just sat there in that house, doing nothing. He had no piano instructor to go to, or a stylist to do his hair. He had nothing. Soon after, my stepbrother and his wife had a child, and they both died of separate conditions unrelated to each other. The girl had no name, but Sebastian wanted to call her Valentina. He took care for her for the most bit. I came home at work every day, and one day, I saw him pick her up, just so gently. There was so much happiness in his eyes that I could not do anything but stare. Then I wrote. And I wrote. That was the first chapter I'd written, a chapter just describing his eyes as he held that girl that he looked at as nothing more than perfect. I'd seen those eyes before, I'd written, when he first looked at me. He would fight for her for his life, as he would for mine. So I wrote. Every day, I wrote. The last time I had seen Valentina was ten years ago, I still thought that she was the same. Only recently had I gone into her room to see her. She is beautiful. I am guilty. Nobody would take my book, because of its contents, because of the impure love. So I left for Denmark. I left with a note, and an eternal love that I hope Sebastian still believed in."

Kurt had shut his eyes. "Ten years," he finally responded. "Ten years I have not seen Valentina in and I am too ashamed to call my daughter any longer."

* * *

It took too long to sail towards the land that was Denmark. By the time he had gotten there, the homophile movement was quite strong. Kurt loved being there but he hated it as well. He hated that he was so far away from Sebastian but he loved how he could understand everyone and that everyone can understand him. The first few things he'd done in Denmark was check his weight, to realise he'd gained a lovely ten pounds on his journey. When Chandler had seen how happy, he was, he'd called Kurt insane. Chandler's eyes practically melted out of their sockets when they realised Kurt's low initial weight.

"Oh my God, I want it." Chandler had simply said.

Kurt had said. "I want your fat." He said, poking at Chandler's stomach. It was moderately flat, but Kurt wanted the thick skin that was coating it. Blaine had laughed. Kurt also appreciated the muscle on Blaine. He hadn't seen someone so perfectly built before. Kurt loved their figures. "Do you truly find thinness attractive? It's quite hilarious for me. I don't have food lying around everywhere so I cannot control how I look like, but it is absurd for me to find skin, bones and skeletons attractive. Mostly, because I've seen how real thin people look like, the kind of thin that makes you want to – I'm sorry to say this – projectile vomit."

Chandler shut his eyes as Kurt took a deep breath. He had pulled up all of the dollars he had gotten and then put them in an envelope. Chandler's first stop was the port, where Kurt realised he'd gotten a letter from Sebastian. He wouldn't dare open the letter. He laid around anxious all day before he had mustered up the courage to finally open that letter that late winter night.

_BVOOLD UVEVI. EZOVMGRMZ SZH BVOOLD UVEVI. R WL GLL. RU BLF'IV HLIIB, PFIG, GSVM R WLM'G PMLD DSZG GSV UFXP R ZN. ZMW R XZM'G SZGV BLF. BLF XZM HSLLG NB UZGSVI ZMW R XZM'G SZGV BLF. ZMW NLHG RNKLIGZMGOB, ORPV R GLOW BLF, PFIG, R SZEV MVEVI IVTIVGGVW XSLLHRMT BLF. R DROO MVEVI IVTIVG BLF. R OLEV BLF._

_OLEV, HVYZHGRZM_

Kurt had spent all of that time deciphering it using the reverse alphabet cipher. And when he had gotten the words written down, he had paled significantly. He can do nothing. He cannot go back to his boyfriend right now, even though Sebastian had told him he was sick, that Valentina was sick, with a disease Kurt had not heard of. Kurt powered on through the last few days, sending Sebastian abnormal sums of money, just so he can feed himself as well as possible. He did not care about the guilt gnawing at his stomach from taking all of this money from Blaine and Chandler and they did not seem to care at all. Kurt had never felt more scared in his life, with the thought of going back home to his sick boyfriend. He did not know of his sickness well, but it was a fever. It could not be that bad, could it? Kurt hoped not.

In about three weeks in Denmark, he had made so many friends, so many of them believing that his love for Sebastian was beautiful. It made him happy, elated, to see that someone understood how beautiful love was. Some of them were against him. Kurt had gone through half of Danish publishers, and then he had met Lester. Lester had stared at him for a while. "I see the face of distress. What ails you?"

"I came from America to Denmark for a dream," Kurt finally said. "A dream that will not come true."

Lester raised an eyebrow. "Your English is well for a worker."

Kurt slowly nodded his head. "I write."

"You write?" and with that, Lester had taken the papers from Kurt's hand.

"Don't bother." Kurt murmured. "You will reject me because it's about two gay boys," he finally said. Lester studied Kurt's dismay for a while. He sounded tired, but Blaine and Chandler were here for something. They wanted to fight back for a bit. Chandler and Blaine's status surely got them ahead of the game. They thought of a world where gay marriage was legal, what a world that would be indeed but it was impossible. It was hilariously impossible. Kurt had picked up the papers and was just about to leave, when Lester had grabbed his shoulder.

"What is your name?"

"Kurt," he answered easily.

"May I read?"

Kurt's heart skipped a beat and then Lester asked. "Have you ever been on a plane, Kurt?"

"I'm far too poor for a train, much less a plane, sir," Kurt chirped.

"Did you come here to get published?" Kurt nodded and Lester stared at him for another bit.

"Do you want to go home?" Kurt nodded again, more adamantly. Lester smiled weakly, and made Kurt sit down as he read.. Kurt waited patiently, for five hours as the man read his story back to front, deciphering everything as intently as possible. Kurt just stared, waiting. He hoped for everything. He hoped for something grand. Lester looked up at him. "Do you have a home, Kurt?"

Kurt slowly nodded his head.

"In chapter fourteen, you said you wanted to buy your boyfriend a house. Did you?" Kurt had laughed.

"I recall I bought him a house in chapter nine," Kurt said. "I've always wanted to buy him a dream house though. I never could. I was far too poor to buy him something perfect as it was. I wanted to give him a house just like his Mother had, something grand, with colours of white and gold. I swore to myself I would if I ever get published, make our lives richer, better…I work hard, sir. I work quite hard at what I do, at what I'm supposed to do. I believe that if I work as hard as I do, I will get something in return, a reward. I came all the way from Ohio to Denmark to get published. I am impulsive and now, I have no dreams."

"No, now, you have to make a new dream," Lester finally said. "I want to publish this book, Kurt."

Kurt stared at Lester for a while. He was so speechless. Lester gave him a card to an address and told him to come by after a few days. Kurt waited with much anticipation and at the end of the week, he visited the man, only to be met with a book. A real book. With a cover, and pages. Kurt's heart was hammering in his chest. Lester was giving him a copy of his own book, his words. Every bit of it. "Though they are censored in libraries," Lester finally said. "They can be, however, bought anywhere."

Kurt's eyes swam with tears. "Thank you," he finally said. "Thank you so much."

He left the household with joy, full of cakes and celebratory biscuits and with that, just like the day he was done writing his book, he called out for Sebastian. "Sebastian, I'm published! I'm published! My book is real! You can touch it! Anyone can hold it and it's so perfect and magnificent _and I'm published_!"

Only then had Kurt realised, he was talking to thin air. Lester had gotten him a plane. In months, he'd gotten to Denmark, but in a shorter time, he'd gotten back home. He had ran inside of his household. Everything was like a blanket of warmth and perfection. He ran around like an excited child, clutching his book proudly to his chest. He ran straight upstairs happily after he opened the house with a set of his keys. "Sebastian, I'm published! I'm published! I'm—"

The book dropped from Kurt's hand when he realised Sebastian was lying down on the bedside. He looked so sad that his heart broke. Kurt had leaned down beside him. "Yellow fever," Sebastian murmured. "Valentina couldn't take it," his voice wavered. "She couldn't fucking take it. She's so little she couldn't…fuck…" he was so hurt that he didn't care that Kurt had been away for months. All he carried about was his dead daughter.

Kurt had leaned down, pulling Sebastian closer. "Are you still sick?"

Sebastian shrugged. "No clue and if I am, I fucking deserve it, Kurt. I fucking _deserve_ it."

Kurt was honestly shocked by these words. "Love, you are insane," he murmured.

"I don't think so," Sebastian finally said. "I don't think I'm sick anymore." He finally said after a while.

Kurt stared down at Sebastian, whose whole world had broken apart. "Kurt, my baby is dead."

"I'm published, Sebastian," Sebastian smiled weakly at this, though he still looked torn to pieces. "We're going to live better, love. It's going to be okay."

Sebastian snorted, laughing. "Kurt, you have never developed any sort of fucking attachment to her like I did. You don't understand."

"I wish I had." Kurt finally said after a while.

Sebastian looked down as Kurt kissed his forehead. Kurt stared at him for some time. The object of his affection, someone he hadn't seen in months, here before him. They fit like a puzzle, as Kurt could not even remember the longing anymore. "Come on, love. I'll make dinner this time," Kurt tried to persuade him. "And you can yell at me for leaving for so long. We cannot stay here forever."

Sebastian stared back at Kurt. Kurt had honestly wanted to jump when he saw how bloodshot those eyes were. How long had he been crying for? How many tears had been shed over this?

"No," was his simply answer.

Kurt curled his lower lip downward and pressed his head against Sebastian's shoulder. "Fine, we will stay here for today but tomorrow, we have to leave this god forsaken bed. It's not good for you, love."

"No," he repeated his answer flatly.

Kurt sighed erratically. "Sebastian, we cannot stay here forever and I cannot watch you wallow in your own misery over her forever."

Sebastian didn't seem to understand this one point as he looked up at Kurt. There was no expression to be read on that face, nothing at all. Kurt didn't seem to understand a singular emotion behind those eyes because there was nothing there to understand. Sebastian stared at Kurt for a while and then he laughed and the laughter had all but turned to tears, hot ones burning down his eyes. Kurt pulled Sebastian close but all was futile. He will never understand the pain of losing a child as well as Sebastian had. He cannot cry over Valentina like Sebastian can and above all, Kurt would always regret that.

* * *

_There is something about losing a child that K may never understand. As I've said in the last book, K is I. Though this K may be darker, more ignorant, it is still the same person only retelling a different story that was buried in the first. I watched S cry. I watched him starve. I watched him stay in that bed for far too many months. Months had turned into years. S had turned into nothing more than V. I barely saw him off my conflicting work schedule. When I wanted to see him, he was asleep. His mourning left me in pain. His indifference despite whatever I said, whatever I promised, broke my heart. I left that book with a monotone of hope. I leave this one with only one note. Nothing in this world is without consequence. _

_The last book I had glossed over V as if she had been my life, but she was only so significant in S's life. I had barely seen her, did not have enough time to develop such love for something as so, but S saw her all the time. She was his past time. Without her, he is empty. He seems to be far too dissociated. I left that spring and only came back that winter. I left something more grand than I had come to. I left a penniless family and came back to a boy that has the money to spend on as many things as he wanted but did not have the energy or motivation to spend a day out of his bed. That bed, I realise, will be his death bed. He does not recognise that I exist anymore or the impact that I used to bring him. I realise this that our time apart has not withered our love for each other, but it has made my torn relationship with V more invisible that it was. I could not understand his pain and for that, he did not listen to me. I could not understand a silver of it and it made my insensitivity towards him hurt him all the more. _

_The next month, I was told my Father had died due to a heart attack. After I had come from Denmark, I used to go there, smoke with him, laugh with him, forget with him. Now only had I realised the impact of loss, something far too strong to keep me the same. I was too depressed to eat, too sick to leave home, but even through that, I had to leave home. I had to work in my mediocre job. Soon after, I realise that a combination of heavy lifting and lack of food had not only produced weight loss, but had left me far too tired. At one point, my physical being could not take my emotional turmoil. I had collapsed a total of four times in Ferris Constructions and by then, I could not stand without being lightheaded. He allowed me to compensate for these "slip-ups" by working overtime. I barely saw S at all. We finally understand each other's pains. We still slept in the same bed, but I had no words to say. S didn't mind that because neither did he. _

_I thought that I had achieved a dream. In that moment that the first book was published, I was happy. I was light. I was elated. I came back home only for a nightmare to begin – something slow, and never-ending. I realised after some time that the consequences of the actions I had taken to make my dream come true was far greater than the dream itself. I cannot smile anymore when I see someone reading my book. I cannot feel anymore when I see anti-homophile men take my book and burn it into the air, producing nothing but ashes from it. I simply cannot feel anything. Even these words phase through my body. I wondered if one day, I will wake up, look over at S, and feel something again or if I have become destined to not feel anything at all. _

_In all essence, my turmoil is quite ironic. I'm a writer that cannot find the words to tell him how I feel, so I'm inclined to not say anything at all and he's inclined to not tell me anything back. I don't know if I can stand the silence anymore, but every day I come to the silence and I begin to understand how it feels like to harbour only emptiness – to be a vessel, and I realise I have not the slightest of clue what I live for. Maybe I'm waiting to see him smile again, ignite the passion again, maybe, but every day, I come back to his indifference, his solitude, and watch him suffer and every day, it kills me more to see those green eyes far too lost, no destination, staring down at his daughter's empty cot, wondering where she is. I am simply there, but he doesn't realise it then, and I may not even realise it fully now, but when I die, it would destroy whatever that remains of him. And when he does, it would destroy whatever that remains of me. We don't talk at all, but even in silence, we say far too much. We cling onto each other because we are mirrors. We cannot find the words to say anything because everything has been said. There is only certainty – that I love him and that he loves me back. He does not need to say these words anymore. They have become facts, like the blueness of the sky or the roundness of the earth. Sometimes, I had the urge to break the vow of silence, just to remind him once more, to ensure it, because somewhere on the inside, I believe that I have forgotten how it is like to love. And somewhere else deeper within me, I might have realised that he had forgotten how to be loved in return. _

* * *

_The constant referencing to Kurt wanting to gain weight is actually spun on by an actual event. Usually, people who have known true hunger and have no choice but to starve actually WANT to have 'padding' as Kurt said. it's actually quite sad. I thought it was a nice contrast and it also showed Kurt's conditions. the fact that Valentina wasn't mentioned until later is because its based on Kurt's perspective for the most bit, and you see a little bit of Sebastian's here and there, but it's mostly written the way Kurt sees it. it's a reflection in how in the beginning of the story Kurt has completely ignored Valentina's existence in his mind. like i said before. the definition of the American Dream depends on how you see it. to Kurt, it was to get his book published and then it was to restore his love between Sebastian and him and make it like it was before. to Chandler and Blaine, they wanted a voice in the homophile movement. and most of all, to Sebastian - he was technically already living it in his mind, choosing to go with Kurt instead of staying with his rich Mother. i suppose it's how you see it though. that's how i planned it out to be. :) i wanted to show some sort of horrendous development to Kurt's character from when he left, he was focused on his book (aka took what he already had for granted in some way/too blinded by his need to publish) that he had left something thinking he'd come back to it the same, but he didn't. he came back to a dead daughter (whom he could not mourn). in all essence, it was the fact that Kurt couldn't feel Sebastian's pain or understand his distance that truly drove them apart. in the end, the fact that he had chosen to write instead of even as Sebastian said 'glancing' at his daughter every now and then came with the consequence of driving a wedge in Sebastian and Kurt's relationship. this whole thing is FILLED with irony, because in the end, Kurt writes to describe his emotion, something that has literally driven a wedge in between their relationship prior to it. other than that, the one time Kurt's impulse has gotten ahead of him has left him with this consequence. this is for you to decide whether it's his fault or just validate it as Kurt's punishment being more than the crime. i think that his punishment was more than the crime in all its essence, and this makes it a type of Greek tragedy; he has established a noble class by the end of this novel, but his own strength - his writing and ambition - has led to his ultimate downfall. _

_i should stop talking now. _

_xo Peanut Butter/Sam _


End file.
